


Breaking Convention

by wreathed



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Hotel Sex, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 07:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6945454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/pseuds/wreathed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Washington intends to end the day on a quiet drink. Then he meets some guy called Hamilton, who has different, louder ideas.</p><p>(aka Hamilton is mouthy and gets rammed.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Convention

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Poose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/gifts).



> Both for [Poose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose) and indebted to [Poose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose), as her [General Dynamics](http://archiveofourown.org/series/413065) series is in this story's bones. (For starters, I've blatantly pinched her modern AU Washington’s profession.)
> 
> With huge thanks to [marginaliana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana) for the beta.

Washington feels like downing his Maker’s in one, but he recognizes a lot of people in this bar, and he doesn’t want any of them bothering him by asking him if he’s had a rough day.

Industry conference on arms exports. Three interminably long days. In DC this year, but life’s too short to battle through traffic on the way in from Virginia when there’s sessions starting at 8 a.m. So he’s managed to get a room, and right now he’s got a seat at the far left corner of the bar since all the tables are occupied with attendees and lobbyists, and Washington is aiming on discouraging anyone from networking with him for twenty minutes or so while he gets a drink or two down him and then he can go upstairs and get some goddamn sleep.

The office had hardly stopped calling him all day about some changes on a contract that he needs to advise on, but he hasn’t gotten to looking at it yet, and then he’d had to spend all afternoon attending an unenlightening presentation on the aerospace market and pretending to listen to Charles Lee’s comprehensive detailing of his latest Aspen vacation.

He hears the creak of leather of the only barstool next to him; someone has sat down, when there are several available places on the other side of the bar. So it’s going to be a bad day from beginning to end, then. A male voice orders some kind of cocktail sour – who does that? At a defense conference? – and Washington sighs, downs his drink (no consequence now he’s not staying) and makes to leave.

“Hey there,” the man says, and although Washington doesn’t recognize the voice, he can only be talking to him. Washington sighs and, very reluctantly, turns to acknowledge whoever it is who’s decided to ruin his evening. Their eyes meet, and the man smiles, and–

For a start, he’s about twenty years younger than Washington – actually, he’s younger than ninety five percent of the people drinking at this bar – and instead of a suit he’s got on a long, loose t-shirt for a band Washington doesn’t recognize that looks like it used to belong to someone else and, well, he’s not wearing _jeans_ but his pants are pretty casual – a couple of conference attendees Washington vaguely knows are looking over at them, affronted by the guy’s attire. He’s got long hair, scraped back into a bun. Dark eyes, framed by raised brows and long, dark eyelashes. A tight, tensed jaw; a soft, slightly open mouth. _Goddammit._

And he must have let his gaze linger a little too long, because unless he’s sorely mistaken, the guy is giving him a once-over too: his eyes flicking from one of Washington’s hands to the other, then up and down the buttons of his dress shirt, finally resting somewhere around his belt buckle, between where his legs are splayed open.

The guy gets his drink – bright red, with no fewer than three cherries floating around in it. Along with a ton of ice. And a straw.

“I’ll get that,” Washington says to the bartender on sheer impulse, handing over his Amex, and the young man _beams_. His right leg, crossed over his left, begins to fidget.

“Thanks,” he says to Washington, once the bartender has left them to it.

“Washington,” Washington says confidently, holding out his hand for the man to shake, mindful of where he is, aiming to give the air of meeting a business contact rather than something that might look like a potential hook-up. The guy shakes with a firm grip (though his hands are soft), but not without throwing a disconcertingly amused glance in Washington’s direction. “What?” Washington says, feeling wrong-footed.

“Hamilton,” says the man, his smile twitching across his face. “Sorry, I didn’t realize we were going by last names, Mr. Brooks Brothers. Feeling cagey?”

“I… No. It’s George.” Washington feels a stab of annoyance that this small, young man wearing clothes countless times more casual than his own has made him feel out of place, and here of all places. “George Washington. What can I call you?”

Hamilton laughs. “Call me Hamilton. Let’s have your introduction set the pace. Last names are fine by me.”

“Hamilton,” Washington tries out in his mouth, and he doesn’t overlook the way Hamilton bites down on the inside of his cheek as he says it. Buzzed. On edge. 

“What do you do?” Hamilton asks him.

“Lockheed Martin. Mostly managing contract negotiation for projects. Been with them in one form or another since I left the army.”

“Oh my God,” Hamilton says, actually giving what could only be described as a nervous giggle. “Don’t take this personally, but–” and suddenly he’s talking a mile a minute about all the things Lockheed Martin are doing wrong and the latest reason why their DC legal department fucked up (turns out he’s final year at Georgetown Law – so what does he know? It’s not like he has Washington’s level of security clearance). Not wishing to scrutinize his employer too much, bound by confidentiality clauses, done with work for the day, Washington tunes out. Instead, he takes in Hamilton’s neat, gesticulating hands and the way his mouth moves when he talks. He’s got deep, dark circles under his eyes, and he must be a little older than Washington first thought him to be, but he can’t be more than twenty-five. Hamilton makes him feel old. He’s not old. How he’d like to shove Hamilton’s thighs apart, skin on skin, and fuck into him so his mouth falls right open as far as it’ll go, Hamilton moaning, and then he could get him sucking down hard on his shoved-in fingers–

“So, what exactly are you doing here?” Washington says suddenly. “Because it sure as shit doesn’t sound like you’re trying to get me to get you a job.”

“You even listening to me?” Hamilton says. “As it goes, I wouldn’t mind one from somebody here at some point. Just, I get passionate. I _know_ when I can bring in great ideas, when I can do better than any of those crusty old white guys up there already. I just need an in.”

Washington looks at him indulgently; purposefully patronizing. “You might want to try your luck elsewhere. I’m not an easy man to impress.”

Hamilton’s eyes widen, something desirous and insistent behind them, as he leans into Washington, seeming to forget himself. Briefly, he sways his head downwards so that he’s staring hard at the floor. The move bares the nape of his neck. It’s like he doubles down on everything that happens to him.

“What are you doing here _now_ , Hamilton? With me?” Washington asks, and he watches Hamilton look up again, watches the line of his shoulders sharpen.

“Uh. Not to be a total creep or anything, but I was watching you from over there for a bit. When I was walking over here from the library – last minute decision – _then_ I was going to try and see if I could build up my contacts for in-house opportunities further down the line. That’s if anyone here would talk to me. But now I’d rather pick you up. I’m trying to pick you up, by the way. Doing a shitty job of it. You’re so fucking hot. You work out, yeah? I bet you could bench press, like, two of me.”

Washington gives a toothy smile, then retracts it to a tight-lipped one. “Shameless. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s very flattering, but this is a Marriott Marquis, not Cobalt. And this is a city that talks.”

“I can talk for the whole city, if you give me a chance,” Hamilton says, leaving his mouth slack as he looks up at Washington from under his eyelashes. It’s all too easy to imagine Hamilton on his knees in front of him, Washington's dick sloppy, filling Hamilton’s mouth. Wouldn’t be able to talk then, would he, would just have to take it.

Outwardly, Washington gives a long, tired sigh, but he feels his heart rate speed up, his cock show strong signs of interest.

He hands over one of his business cards to Hamilton, the key card to his hotel room concealed underneath. “122,” he tells him very quietly. “Go up. Take a shower. I’ll be there soon.”

“If I get myself off,” Hamilton says right into his ear (so stupidly obvious). “Will you punish me?”

“Why would you ruin it for yourself?” Washington says sternly, and takes in Hamilton’s slow, steady blink. “Don’t get yourself off. If you do, I won’t do anything you enjoy, whether you’d term it punishment or not.”

Hamilton swallows. He sets his glass down on the table with a _clink_. “Catch you later,” he says, smirking, and indiscreetly makes his way over to the nearest elevator.

*

When Washington gets to his room twenty minutes later and knocks, Hamilton opens the door, pulls him through it and kisses him enthusiastically, grinding his erection against Washington’s thigh. He’s showered, long hair almost dry and loose around his shoulders, and he’s thrown his t-shirt back on but not bothered with anything else.  
“Leaving me that long, Jesus Christ, I could barely–” Hamilton begins, before recommencing his rubbing off against Washington’s thigh. “I thought about getting myself ready for you, but I couldn’t find your lube.”

“You went through my stuff?” Washington says, fighting the tempting distraction the hardness of Hamilton’s dick is offering.

“Not really?” Hamilton replies, breathing hard. “Just your clothes, and what you’d left out on your desk. I’m sorry, I was bored. Kind of accidentally found your session notes though,” and Washington’s eyes widen at the impunity. _Christ._ He thinks back to what he’d been skimming through before he’d left for dinner. Nothing to seriously panic over – just some vague, half-hearted notes he’s written during Knox’s talk on improvements his team have made to demand forecasting. Could have been much worse. Could have been his own presentation. Or the draft contract he’s got locked in his laptop case. “The bit about maintaining a unified but multinational perspective; it really made me think about something I read once about protecting IP internationally–”

“I’m certain that every foreseeable eventuality has been taken care of,” Washington says, crossing his arms, Hamilton still right up close to him.

“The forecasting method your colleague was talking about. Doesn’t seem entirely… ethical, does it?” Hamilton says, eyes flicking from point to point, resting on nothing. He carries on speaking even as he gives his dick a perfunctory tug, seemingly unable to stop himself doing that as much as he seems unable to stop running his mouth. “And you look like you could afford to be moral if you wanted to be.” 

“Don’t think that you know me,” Washington says, his voice low. “You’re just some kid.” He grabs the roots of Hamilton’s hair and pulls, so that Hamilton’s looking right up at him. Hamilton moans loudly, definitely loud enough to carry through the door.

“I didn’t do that because I thought you’d like it,” Washington says, but that just makes Hamilton moan even louder. “God's sake, Hamilton. Am I going to have to kick you out? Or just make you sign an NDA?”

“Can’t we just go with mutually assured destruction?” Hamilton says throatily, reaching down to firmly palm his hand over where Washington is _aching_. “Please don’t kick me out. Fuck me, fuck me, old man, just _do it_.”

He’s so infuriating he’s almost giving Washington a headache – _old man?_ – and yet the constriction Washington’s clothes are currently causing him, how sensitive he is, is demanding his attention. And how _needy_ Hamilton is – it won’t leave his head.

He digs his teeth into Hamilton's neck, then leans back and swiftly pulls off his t-shirt, tugging it up over his head so Hamilton's completely naked. Hamilton’s body is that of someone who cycles, but ruins his good work by having an exhausting schedule and eating bad. His cock is hard and heavy in front of him, curving slightly to the right. Hamilton’s eyes are fixed on him, bright.

Taking his cue, Hamilton leaves off Washington’s thigh for now and undoes Washington’s dress pants. Washington tugs them down and steps out of them, pulls off his shoes and socks with his toes, then deliberately steps back from Hamilton a little and, more slowly, unbuttons his jacket with twists of his fingers. After that, his shirttails and his underwear don’t entirely hide the well-defined outline of his erection. Hamilton, backed up against the wall, chokes out a moan, gives his cock a single tug. “Holy shit, you have a great dick,” Hamilton says sincerely, both his hands now reaching forward to cover Washington’s cock with delicious pressure. “Need to see it properly. Need it in me.”

Washington breaks away somewhat reluctantly, pushing Hamilton’s hands away from touching himself as he goes (Hamilton lets him), goes to the bathroom to get lube (in a zipped-up compartment of his wash kit, not the suitcase that Hamilton had been nosing around in) and a condom. He comes back into the bedroom, puts both items down on the nightstand, and takes in Hamilton looking pleadingly at him with wide, desperate eyes. “What did you say you wanted?” Washington asks Hamilton, letting a taunting smile break across his face.

“I need you to fuck me,” Hamilton says, chest heaving, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. “You pick the position, I don’t care as long as I get that dick inside me. _Please_.”

Washington tosses the bottle of lube to Hamilton, who doesn’t manage to catch it, but immediately, ungracefully bends down to pick it up off the floor. “Open yourself up for me,” he says, to which Hamilton nods along almost amusingly furiously in agreement. “Seeing as you were so desperate to before. If you can’t wait for my fingers, your own will have to do.”

Hamilton turns away so his forehead is against the wall, mouth open like he can’t take in enough air. He covers his fingers in lube before snapping the bottle shut and chucking it onto the edge of the bed. He spreads his legs, the slide of his bare feet audible on the smooth carpet. He takes deep breaths, in and out, as he slides one of his own fingers in, then whines, his free hand going to his ass to spread himself apart a bit for Washington, all his tension going into his bowed neck and his head resting against the wall.

Washington watches from his seated position at the foot of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt and undoing his tie. “Another,” he says quietly, then watches Hamilton say _yes_ and fill himself up a little more. Washington goes for his boxers and pushes them off to the floor, running his hand over his dick.

It’s quite a sight he’s got in front of him, he thinks, as he presses the heel of his hand against his erection – Hamilton like this in front of him, open. Making enough noise for the surrounding rooms to know something’s up. Always noise, with him.

“Fuck,” Hamilton says to the wall in a half-strangled voice, two of his own fingers in to the bottom joints. “I‘m thinking about getting you inside me. You want to bang me up against this wall? You can go as hard as you want.”

People’ll hear them loud and clear – the hotel’s sold out for the conference, there’ll be guests packed in all around them – but Hamilton continues his groaned-out litany, wanting this so much, and Washington, against his better judgment, starts giving his own dick a few tight strokes, thinking about how hard and deep Hamilton will probably let him fuck him.

“Okay, just… stay there. Stay still,” Washington says in the end, breaking Hamilton off from whatever he’s saying, just when he doesn’t want to hold off any longer and Hamilton looks like he’s about to break apart; his hair all messed up at the hairline where it’s been against the wall, his ass tight and slick around his own fingers. “ _Stay still._ ″ Hamilton is visibly straining from the instruction.

Washington tears open the condom wrapper. “Turn around,” he says, voice low, and Hamilton does, his back leant against the wall. As Washington rolls the condom on, he watches Hamilton’s fingers, his flushed face, the shine of sweat above his top lip.

“Go on; what are you waiting for – do it,” Hamilton whines, and Washington stands up and crosses the room in three large strides. “Shit, your thighs are _huge_ ,” Hamilton says, although his eyeline mostly seems focused on Washington’s dick. “Your arms; Jesus.” He’s got to admit it, it’s good for his ego, makes all the free time he spends in the gym feel even more worth it. “You want to take your shirt all the way off so I can see those things properly?”

“No,” Washington says, and watches Hamilton’s eyes close and throat swallow like he’s just been given praise he can’t bear.

He lifts Hamilton up, hands under his thighs, gets him against the wall, Hamilton’s fingers slipping out and both his hands reflexively gripping Washington’s shoulders through his unbuttoned shirt. Hamilton squirms a bit, but Washington holds him firm, and that makes Hamilton split in a grin of pleasure. He lines up his dick with some difficulty, hands-free and all, then finally slides in. He goes slow first of all, watching Hamilton pant as he pushes all the way up.

Hamilton feels good, hot and tight, and he’s light enough for Washington to hold against the wall without much trouble, and Washington takes Hamilton at his word and just keeps going.

After a few more thrusts Hamilton’s head thunks back against the wall and Washington stops moving in alarm, but Hamilton seems to have barely noticed. “Keep going,” he breathes out, looking right into Washington’s eyes as Washington catches his breath. “Fucking keep going, why have you stopped?”

With care, Washington gets one of Hamilton’s legs around his waist so he can free one hand to hold up against the wall behind the back of Hamilton’s head.

He feels powerful like this: Hamilton close against him, meeting each of his thrusts with an exquisite little _oh_ in the absence of really being able to move himself at all. Washington can feel himself begin to move right up towards the point of orgasm, his balls beginning to tighten.

“Can you get a finger in there too?” Hamilton says. “I can take it.”

Frustrated at the interruption, Washington stops, balls-deep in Hamilton, and breathes out hard. “I’ve only got two hands. I’m holding you up with one, stopping you from knocking yourself out with the other. You want me to move this to the bed?”

“Sure, sure,” Hamilton pants. “Just, as long as you start fucking me again, yeah?”

Washington hesitates briefly before saying it, but he’s pretty sure Hamilton’s up for anything he’s going to do. “You going to be a good boy and take what you’re given?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Hamilton says, and tries to move himself on Washington’s dick, but Washington’s got him pinned. “Uh, sure. I can be good.”

Washington winds both his arms around Hamilton’s thighs, hands splayed across his back, still inside him, and turns him around so Washington can throw him down on the mattress. Washington stays standing, puts Hamilton down on his back, spreads his legs wide apart and fucks into him as deeply as he can go, getting nothing from him other than wordless noises for a few minutes.

“You could do anything to me,” Hamilton manages to say eventually, looking right at him again in that slightly disconcerting way of his. “Choke me a bit. Go on, do it.”

“I’m not going to choke you,” Washington says. “I barely know you. I might break your goddamn windpipe.”

“Please,” Hamilton whines. “You going to at least use your fingers somewhere else? Open me right up; I need _more_ –”

“Do you ever shut up? Shut the hell up.”

Hamilton groans as Washington thrusts back into him right after he’s said it. “ _Make_ me,” Hamilton says, his hands twisted into the sheets and his eyes half-closed. And, ah, of course, Washington realizes. Hamilton’s been goading the whole time, because Hamilton can’t be responsible for himself. He has to be _made_.

Washington reaches for his tie, still hanging loose around his neck, tucked under his collar. He takes it off, folds it up with a performed patient neatness and shoves it in Hamilton’s mouth. “Don’t mess up the tie,” he says off-handedly. “It’s worth more than one of your textbooks.” As he is, Hamilton can hardly do anything but soak it with his saliva. He gives out a low whine around the makeshift gag. He looks depraved. The tie’ll be ruined. Washington doesn’t care about the tie.

He reaches over for the previously discarded bottle of lube and puts a bit more on his cock, then pushes in again. It leaves his fingers slick, so he slides a couple in beside his impaled dick, just to see what Hamilton will do.

Hamilton near-thrashes his body on the bed, goes totally over to it; he makes a noise that, if not gagged, Washington thinks would probably be a wild kind of sob. He’s clenching around everything and it’s an incredible feeling Washington wants to come right into.

“OK?” Washington says, and Hamilton nods back at him fiercely, taking deep breaths in around the tie. “You can take it, can’t you? All of me, and then some.”  
And Hamilton’s obviously such a clever, brilliant young man, too clever for his own good probably, but he looks so _dumb_ as he’s being fucked wide open, mouth shiny with spit, eyes rolling back in his head; totally blissed out. Washington could watch him take it for a long time, he thinks.

As if from somewhere far away, Washington hears his own breath begin to hitch as he nears his climax again. 

″You want my hand on your dick?” Washington breathes out as he drives back into Hamilton, lazily slow now.

Hamilton moans, apparently in the affirmative. Washington pulls his tie out of Hamilton’s mouth.

“Give it to me,” Hamilton says, breathless, looking almost sick with desire. “I’m ready to fucking go. You close?”

Washington puts the tie back in Hamilton’s mouth, just for the hell of it, then after a few moments of watching Hamilton space out as he fucks him fast as he can go, takes it out again.

“You want to get close?” Hamilton says once his mouth is free. At that, he clenches himself around Washington again and Washington makes a stuttered movement inside him at the sensation, like a tight hand’s gripping him right at the base of his dick, before resting one broad palm against one of Hamilton’s splayed thighs and fucking him hard, the other hand closing over Hamilton’s hot, leaking dick.

“Yeah, gonna do it,” Hamilton says. “All yours. Going to come all over your hand as soon as you’re done. Or– no, no, wait, shit–”

Hamilton comes messily and loudly, and doesn’t complain when Washington doesn’t pull out, instead upping his pace.

With a wordless groan, Washington comes hard inside Hamilton, Hamilton’s back arching upwards slightly from the overload of sensation.

“Thank you,” Hamilton says, immediately sleepily, as Washington pulls out slowly, knots the condom, chucks it in the trash can by the nightstand and collapses on the bed beside him, tapped out. Slowly, Hamilton turns over so that he’s on his stomach, and his next words are muffled by the comforter. “I need someone to– I need– _that_ ; I–”

“Shh,” Washington says, a bit perfunctory, then on impulse runs his fingers briefly through Hamilton’s hair, smoothing it flat under his hand. He really needs Hamilton to be quiet, but now he finds he also wants him to sleep, for his own good. He’s infuriating, yes, but he probably just needs a mentor. A guiding hand. His hands, pushing Hamilton to his knees–

Apparently things have complicated themselves.

“There any tiny cans of Red Bull in that minibar?” Hamilton asks, still muffled, as Washington pulls off his sweat-soaked shirt and throws it to the floor. “Grab me a couple and I’ll leave in a few.”

“Stay,” Washington says. A satisfied tiredness running through his bones (joining the worryingly tight clench of emotion somewhere in his chest), he pulls Hamilton up to the head of the bed, climbs under the comforter, and pulls it over him and Hamilton. Then he clears his throat. “You can stay.” 

Hamilton turns over so that it’s his back rather than his front on the mattress, and gazes across at Washington with a soft expression in his eyes and a slight smirk. “Grab me one anyway? I can probably go again. I don’t really sleep much, so–”

“Well, I do,” Washington says firmly, tearing his eyes from the line of Hamilton’s shoulders, visible over the top of the comforter, to turn off the light. “What is wrong with you?”

“You wanted me to stay,” Hamilton says simply. “So I thought–”

“‘m not going to kick you out,” Washington replies. It feels good to let his eyes close in a dark room, post satisfying orgasm. “At whatever the hell time this is.”

Hamilton makes a drawn-out, pleased sound, then fidgets again (Washington feels it move the covers around). “Sure, if _you_ can’t go again, that’s cool.”

“You have my business card,” Washington says, slowly but firmly. “Text me if you want to _go again_. That’s if you promise to leave my work files alone–”

“Sure,” Hamilton replies, the cadence of sleepiness returning to his voice, but it sounds like he’s also smiling. “But once I’m fully qualified, I swear you’ll be begging me for legal advice. And, you sure? Actual texts? Unencrypted? Never heard of WhatsApp?”

Washington only grunts in response, giving Hamilton a not-quite-playful shove, but he doesn’t pull away his hand from resting on Hamilton’s warm skin after he’s done it.

*

A week later, Washington’s back in his office after a lunchtime meeting and picks up a voicemail on his cell from a number he doesn’t recognize. It’s Hamilton, asking around some suspiciously heavy breathing whether he’s free tonight. Furious heat runs over Washington’s cheeks, and he fumbles with the cell in his haste to delete it.

 _Texts only, I said._ , he messages to Hamilton (after saving his name as such in his contacts; no first name, he doesn’t know it yet after all). _I’m serious._

Then, before Hamilton can reply or he can think too much about it, he calls the Marriott to book a room.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat to me on [tumblr](http://wreathedwith.tumblr.com/).


End file.
